


Swing Batter, Swing

by AcrylicMist



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Baseball, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Alternate Universe - Sports, Angst and Drama, Blood and Injury, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fantasy Racism, First Meetings, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, MeetCute, Miscommunication, Other, Politics, Professional sports angst, Refugees, Slow Burn, The death of individuality, They play a ballgame, way too many bad baseball puns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:41:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23624785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcrylicMist/pseuds/AcrylicMist
Summary: Dave and Dirk are professional ball players on one of the best teams in the world, and each hold a secret the League would terminate their careers over. But even as good as they are, what will happen when the League decides to bat the first-ever troll player?Professional Baseball AU!
Relationships: Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas
Comments: 25
Kudos: 63





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Pitching from Third](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18918310) by [carnivorousBelvedere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carnivorousBelvedere/pseuds/carnivorousBelvedere), [notwest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notwest/pseuds/notwest), [PeachBriseadh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachBriseadh/pseuds/PeachBriseadh). 



> Play Ball

They were still in the first inning the first time Dave saw the troll lurking in the back of the other team’s dugout. It was hard to miss him— that gray skin really stood out against the crisp white of his uniform. He wasn’t wearing a ball cap. The short, oddly rounded orange and yellow horns Dave could spot from where he sat probably prevented that, and the troll's wild black hair spilled out like a mane or a mop around his head. His eyes gleamed red/yellow from the shadows of the dugout, strangely luminous in the darkness. 

Huh. He’d heard that this team had the misfortune to bat the League’s first professional troll player but actually seeing a troll in the familiar uniform of the League was still a fucking shock. Kudos to him though. That crazy gray motherfucker must have some balls of fucking steel considering all the shit the League must be throwing down on him from the on-high lift of the press box like the fist of God himself. 

It wasn’t until Dave’s team took the field that Dave got close enough to see the bright red number printed across the troll’s back. 69. He had to bite back a grin as he slipped his facemask on. There were only two explanations for a number that purposely sexually provocative. Either the League was punishing its first official troll player or this Vantas troll had chosen it himself.

Dave knew which option he preferred as he donned the familiar catcher’s gear and took his spot behind the plate. The slight crunch of his cleats in the clay grit was comforting and his gear smelled like sweat where the mask covered his face, it’s specially tinted visor shielding his eyes from the spot lights that beamed down onto the field. The stadium was loaded today, here in mass numbers to watch the number one team slaughter the underdog. 

Dave let his fist fall into his open glove as the red dust rained down. 

Let’s play some fuckin ball. 

Dave heard John’s voice chime in from the announcer’s booth over the roar of the crowd. “Up to bat first from the Derse team is number eleven, Geoffrey Jones.” John listed some quick stats as the man approached the plate, the bat over his shoulder like he wasn’t about to face off against the best pitcher in all fifty states. 

From the mound, Dirk shot Dave a keen glance and Dave could hear Jake jeering insults from his spot at shortstop. It’s happening man. Shit was about to hit the whirling device as the familiar sound of Jake’s far-fetched insults rang in his ears over the roar of the crowd. 

Dave bit back a smile and forced his attention back to the game at hand, his focus narrowing down to the ball in his brother’s expert grip. 

The batter took his stance, and a half second later a mean fastball split right up the middle and smacked solidly into Dave’s waiting glove. 

“Strike!” The umpire called and Jake’s jeering grew loud enough that the umpire gave him a warning that left him sulking. 

Dave threw the ball back to Dirk, who’s glove snapped up to snag it effortlessly out of the air.

Angry now at being so blatantly disrespected, seriously, a fastball right off the fuckin bat, come on Dirk, show a little class, the batter squared up again, spitting onto the clay in Dirk’s direction. 

Dave could see his twin’s eyes narrow from behind the plate. Oh shit. He shouldn’t have done that. Now Dirk was pissed. 

It was merciless after that. Three up, three down. Dirk struck out each batter with ease. No one could touch him. 

He was poetry in motion, a billboard of perfect technique blended with unique flare and a skill that even after years left Dave a little envious. Foot-over-the-head perfect windup and release, incredible precision, and the ball smacked into Dave’s glove exactly where it was meant to every time. 

After the third out the inning turned and Dave followed his team back into the dugout to wait his turn at bat. The first three batters gained a single base hit, so there was a man on first when Jake stepped up to the plate, swinging his bat like it was feather-light before he took his stance. 

The crowd hushed up as the famous heavy-hitter swaggered up to the plate. Jake shot his adoring fans a wink right as the cameras zoomed in on him like the fucking show-off he was. 

The enemy pitcher looked distinctly nervous as he fell into his windup, which after witnessing Dirk’s pitching looked sloppy in comparison. There were two balls before the enemy pitcher dared throw a strike and the crack of the wooden bat colliding with the ball was thunderous. 

Jake made it to second easily and the man on first made a risky run for home that paid off and suddenly the Prospit team was up by one. 

What came next could be categorized as nothing except a massacre. Prospit steamrolled the Dersite team 13-0 before the last inning had ended, and in a fit of desperation Dave watched as the head coach of the other side put in the troll in a last-ditch effort to gain a few points. 

Dave squatted patiently behind home plate, shifting his weight from leg to numb leg as his first troll batter ever approached the plate. 

Dave couldn’t keep his mouth shut as the batter took his stance. “Hey, hey. Hey.” He said, trying to distract the batter as he brought his glove up to his chest. “I’ve never seen a troll in uniform before. How many asses did you kiss to buy your position?”

The troll barely spared him a glance, just squinting in Dave’s direction with narrowed eyes. “Fuck off.”

It wasn’t the first time Dave had heard that response to his shit-talking, and it only egged him on. “Oh, I see,” Dave said, focusing on his brother as Dirk stepped into his windup, all power and grace. He waited just right to time his response for when it would be the most distracting. “You earned your number from 69ing the boss.”

The strike soared past the troll, a wicked curveball that the batter didn’t flinch at. The ball smacked into Dave’s glove. 

“Strike,” the umpire called, and the troll swung through the empty air over the plate, tracking where the ball had crossed over with a keen eye. 

Dave caught the way the troll batter memorized the path the ball had taken. So did Dirk. It was common for first time strikes to plot the same path, but there was something in the stubborn set of this troll’s shoulders that made it stand out. Vantas was serious. 

“Oh shit, someone call the cops. There’s a goddamn ballplayer over here,” Dave taunted. “You think you’re the big shit, don’t you, little shit?”

This time the curveball came from the opposite side before the troll could reply, a tricky switch no other pitcher had mastered as beautifully as Dirk. The ball raced towards the plate and straight to it’s home in Dave’s waiting hand. 

The troll brought the bat around in record time, but still a hair wrong, out of place as the ball came from the other side. He swung. 

The smack of the ball into Dave’s glove didn’t come. The troll had gotten a piece of it and the ball spun out of bounds a few feet away, the first ball in maybe play all goddamn day. 

Damn. Now Dirk was pissed off that his streak was broken, Dave could read it in his brother’s expressionless poker face from here. It was time to get serious. Like any good catcher/pitcher duo Dave had a series of hand signals to communicate between him and Dirk, and he used one now. 

Fastball— no more fucking around. They had two strikes on this fucker and it was time to smoke his ass.

One of Dirk’s famous, record-breakingly speedy fastballs tore right up the middle, blink-and-miss-it fast, an over 95er for sure. 

It should have been an easy out, but somehow the troll got the bat around in time to nearly split the damn ball in half. The crack was thunderous, stunning Dave’s exposed ears as his eyes hastily tracked the ball through the air.

Shit that sounded like a homerun. Fuck, it looked like a homerun.

The troll shot off for first base as the ball collided with the back wall and bounced back into play right only to slip between Calliborn’s mismatched legs. It rolled backwards at least twenty yards before another outfielder scooped it up to hurl it back into the infield. 

By this time the troll was halfway past second. Damn he was fast. 

Dave got into position, instinctively knowing the troll wouldn’t stop at third. 

“Home!” Dave yelled desperately, and the troll rounded third at full speed, barreling forwards him as Vantas hauled ass, racing the ball behind him as it ripped through the air. The troll slid for it, neck-and-fucking-neck as the ball hit Dave’s glove the second the troll’s foot hit the smooth plate. An instant later Dave slapped his glove against the troll’s thigh, but it was too late. 

“Safe!” The umpire called out to the screams of the crowd, and Dave locked eyes with the troll on the ground before him.

The smug alien grinned at him, showing teeth. “I fucking earned this spot,” he spat out, nearly purring in satisfaction. “And don’t you fucking forget it, ass for brains.”

A niggling of feeling crept its way down Dave’s spine at the words as he stared back, his own eyes safely hidden beneath his darkly tinted visor. He helped the troll back to his feet, pulling the sturdy guy upright with an offered hand. People were booing from the stands but fuck them. This guy had just pulled off an excellent play to save his team from total humiliation; he deserved a little good sportsmanship. 

“So, Vantas,” Dave said, standing across from the troll with home plate between them. “Where’d you learn to swing like that?”

The troll just shrugged, grunted, “thanks,” and jogged back to his dugout. Dave tried hard not to check out his ass as Vantas jogged away from him, but that was Mission Impossible complete with its own theme music. That ass… Dave’s brain nearly short-circuited at the sight. 

The score now read 13-1. 

The last batter up was a piece of shit who swung at everything and was struck out to end the pathetic game easily. This Dersite team hadn’t stood a chance, and even against mostly second string hitters had still been steamrolled. 

Dave stood up, joints popping as he stretched out his lithe frame.

Vantas was at the back of the line when Dave took off to first to do the old song and dance of shaking hands with a team that at best played like a garbage fire on a hot day. Dave had seen talented dog shit play a better game that the Dersites, but Vantas had pulled off a sick infield homerun and Dave wouldn’t forget that play easily. 

The troll had mangled his hat to make it fit over his horns, and he wore it with the brim down like he was trying to hide his face or shield his eyes from the glare of the spotlights. Dave reached him last and couldn’t ignore the way his skin tingled when he shook hands with the troll, feeling claws prick against his wrist. “Good game.”

“Good game,” Vantas parroted back automatically, his focus elsewhere as he repeated the lackluster ritual words. He looked like he wanted to get out of there as soon as possible.

Dave let the troll go without a word as John screeched congratulations and game details through the intercom. “Thirteen to one,” John announced happily. “With Karkat Vantas scoring the only point for the Derse team, the League’s first ever professional troll player executing a beautiful infield homerun. Great play, and even better hint at what’s to come out of the League’s newest player.”

Karkat, Dave thought, grinning to himself as he jogged over to meet with Dirk and Jake were they stood around the outside of the dugout. That was the troll’s name. Karkat. 

“It’s okay, mate,” Jake said comfortingly as Dave drug his attention back on his teammates. 

Dirk just shrugged. “I was so close to pitching a perfect game,” he said.

“Like you haven’t had plenty of those,” Dave teased as he slid his helmet off and in the same motion smoothly replaced his sunglasses so that his eyes weren’t revealed. The spotlights on field were far too bright for stupid shit like unprotected eyes. 

The jumbotron was scanning over the cheering crowds and taking brief instances to focus on individual players, and almost like John had heard Dave’s inner thoughts the cameras swung around to focus on Karkat, who didn’t notice that his image was being broadcast to the entire stadium as he sulked in the shadows of his team’s dugout. 

Dave stared at the troll. Broad, muscular shoulders over a body built like a sack of flour, a real brick shithouse, eat-shit-and-die kind of build that was unusual to see on a troll. The gray aliens tended to be taller, more strung-out and built, and without the added length of horns Karkat was exactly as short as he looked. 

Dirk must have caught Dave watching the screen because he joked lightly. “See something you like?”

Dave was too cool to blush, and he flicked his twin off. “Fuck off,” he said, slightly panicked that anyone aside form Jake had overheard the quip. It might have been a joke, but doing homo shit in public was the number one way to have the League terminate a contract. 

Not that the imminent threat of termination stopped Dirk and Jake from being together any more than it stopped Dave from secretly batting for both teams. They just had to keep their shit on the down-low. Outside of the three of them, only John knew that Dirk and Jake were a couple and that’s exactly how Dave wanted it to stay. If fuckers like Caliborn found out, it was game over. 

John was still gushing over the troll over the mike. Dave quickly memorized the guy’s stats and found out that Karkat Vantas might just be hot shit. How’d a guy that good end up on such a shit team?

Dave didn’t have to think hard to know the answer. Fuckin’ shame that the League was full of nothing but old white speciest motherfuckers, this troll was good. He deserved better than the shit team they’d paired him with. 

An idea struck him then, and Dave couldn’t help but smile. 

Game on.


	2. chapter two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baseball chapter two hell yeah!
> 
> I know I generally despise all chapter twos, but I think this one turned out pretty alright actually. Maybe I've broken free of my chapter two curse!

John was still up in the announcer’s box when Dave found him. The team tended to scatter after the rush on the locker rooms had ended, but John always stuck around up here, taking in the view of the field from on high as the crowds trickled out and field maintenance began. It was a universal constant at this point. As long as the field lights stayed on, John would be up in the press box, his fingers still wrapped around the mike as he memorized the gameplay he’d just narrated. 

Dave pushed the door open to see the expected sight of his friend. “Yo.”

“Dave,” John called out happily from where he was leaning against the window, taking in the sight of the field spread below him. He didn’t turn around, still glued to the window as he spoke. “Great game tonight, you know, as always I guess.”

Dave shrugged even though his friend wasn’t looking. “They were a shit team,” he admitted. “We were always going to steamroll them. Whoever set this game up was either an idiot or screwing with the betting pools.”

“I’ll take the latter,” John said, finally turning around. “There’s a lot of money to get made off of shit teams.” He was grinning widely, his throat a bit hoarse from hours of excited announcing. 

Dave got down to business, slyly beginning the interrogation. “That infield homerun was just about the only good play of the game,” he started, faking a yawn. 

John was immediately hooked. “You think so?” he asked, flipping through a stack of stats cards that sat haphazardly piled across his announcer’s desk. “And from a troll player as well—the first professional one, I should say.” And then John was off, talking rapid-fire about stats and player history and coaches, blue eyes shining with repressed excitement. “Excellent play from him, the best of the night from his team. Karkat Vantas, number 69.” John finished hunting through the card pile and fished out Vantas’ card, holding it up triumphantly. Then he whistled. “Woah, he’s only been playing professionally for a few weeks. This is one of the first games he’s been on-field for.”

“And he did not disappoint,” Dave fueled John’s fire shamelessly. 

“I know, right?” John said, and Dave reached for the card.

John was still talking stats, but Dave’s eyes were on the picture on the back of the player card he held. On it, the troll ballplayer was wearing a ball cap over his wild hair, his horns completely hidden. He wasn’t openly scowling in the photo, but Dave could tell he wanted to from the subtle twist of his lips, a quiet form of defiance. His eyes were that weird shade of red that Dave had never seen on a troll before, too bright to be rust. A silver chain glinted at his neck, the end hidden by the neck of his jersey. 

Dave sighed, fanning himself with the card, upping the drama for John’s benefit. “You know,” he said slowly, leading John to the idea like a horse to water. “With stats like these, this troll should bat for a much better team. Too bad that the League assigned him to such a shit team. I bet your dad would love to coach this guy.”

John’s expression brightened as predictably, he drank. Dave made a mental tally for the successful horse pun to tell Dirk about later. “You’re right!” John exclaimed, banging his fist down on the desk. He took the card back from Dave and stared hard at the picture of the troll, biting his lip. Dave could all but see the gears turning in his head. “With Rodriguez out with that knee injury, I guess there’s an open second string slot on your team, Dave.”

“I guess,” Dave said, shrugging again, secretly delighted that his plan was working. “I don’t really remember all of the second string players that well.”

“Well, you should—they’re teammates,” John scolded him, shuffling the cards expertly. “I guess I could talk to my dad about Vantas batting for Prospit,” John mused thoughtfully. “I bet he could give the troll a fair run at least, better than Derse ever could.”

“Yeah,” Dave said, nodding as he sweetened the pot. “Plus the Dersite coach is a bigoted fuckhead.”

“He’s not... okay yeah, he’s pretty bad,” John admitted. “He must hate having to bat a troll.” John looked like he was thinking hard. “But I’d bet my dad would love to coach him, even if he turns out to be an asshole.”

“I’d be willing to bet on it,” Dave nodded, hiding his excitement. He kept his voice flat and even. “So you’ll talk to your dad?”

“Sure,” John decided. “And he’ll talk to the League about reassigning the troll.”

“Awesome,” Dave said, and he slipped his hat back on and tried to rub the clay dust off of his knees. “It was great talking to you, John,” he said, turning to head back out the door.

“Yeah, and Dave?” John called out from behind his back.

“What?”

“You’re full of shit,” John told him, and Dave could hear the grin in his voice. “It’s a good thing you were never an actor.”

Dave laughed, delighted that John had finally caught onto his schemes. “Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said. “I’ve got a poker face in spades though.”

“Just be careful,” John asked him, looking worried. “You know the League’s rules just as well as I do.”

That probably wasn’t strictly true. John could all but quote the rulebook from memory, but Dave did know all of the rules that mattered. “I don’t think switching the troll’s team counts as gay shit,” Dave reassured him, poking fun at the truth with one of the very few people who knew about his sexuality. “At least not on the surface.”

John didn’t look wholly convinced. “I’ll do it because we’re friends and also because my dad is literally your coach,” he promised. “But keep your head down, Dave. You’re still under contract.”

“I know,” Dave said, sighing. “Like they’d ever let me forget that.”

John stared at him, and something in his blue gaze looked frightfully sad. “Hey, Dave?”

“Yeah?”

“Good game.” It clearly wasn’t what John wanted to say, but what other words could he use? The League had ears everywhere. 

“Good game,” Dave said back, showing John the same courtesy he’d give another player because announcer or not, John had more of a heart for baseball than half the smucks on field. “I’ll catch you later, alright?”

“Fine,” John said, and then he smiled brightly. “Hopefully next time we meet I’ll have your new crush batting for your team.”

“Ha,” Dave said, backing out of the door and he shot John the bird. “Asshole.”

“You know it,” John called out to him, and then Dave turned the corner and left the press box behind him to descend approximately three million stairs to get back to the locker rooms so he could grab his shit and go. Dirk would only wait for him at the car for so long before Dave would be forced to Uber home. 

It was a quick change of clothes, a three-minute shower, and a nearly-empty gym bag later that Dave exited the arena. The parking lot out back was cold and dark. There was a chill in the air even with the turn of spring, game time just starting after the long off season. The true brackets hadn’t even begun yet, each team still warming up to full form and testing each other’s limits. At this point in the season, the title could have gone to anyone.

Dave was going to do his fucking best to make sure that his team won the gold. For all that he and Dirk were top-rated, they’d yet to win the championship due to team-related errors, injuries, and shit rotten luck. Two star players did not a team make. Prospit had to be strong on every front this year to have a shot at winning.

Dave took a deep breath as he noticed his brother waiting for him in the SUV, the car idling quietly in the chill air. He could feel it. This year would be different. 

Dirk beeped the horn at him, two long, drawn out blasts that echoed in the boxed-in parking lot and Dave automatically flicked him off in response. “You impatient motherfucker,” he huffed, yanking open the car door to slam it behind him.

Dirk glared dispassionately at him, but one corner of his mouth was raised. “What took you so long?”

Dave shrugged, all insolence and wry wit. “I was giving you and Jake plenty of time to fuck in the showers,” he shot back, knowing that the pair of lovebirds would never do anything that fucking stupid in real life.

Dirk’s lips turned down with distaste at the idea. “Not my style,” he reminded Dave, revving the engine. “What were you really doing?”

Dave threw his bag in the back of the vehicle, grinning. “I was roping John into shenanigans.” 

“What shenanigans?”

“Baseball ones, what else?” Dave answered evasively. 

Dirk sighed and the car pulled forward with a lurch. “I just hope you’re not doing anything stupid,” he said at last, knuckles white against the steering wheel. 

Dave shrugged. “Want to find out? Be at practice next week,” he said, like there was a chance in hell Dirk would miss practice for any reason. 

“Fine,” Dirk answered as the car sped away from the arena and back to their shared apartment. “It’s a deal.”

…

Coach Egbert managed to get all of the paperwork filed in just under a week. The job was made easy by the fact that the Dersite team didn’t fucking want Vantas in the first place and were glad to give the troll the boot at the first opportunity presented. Part of that made Dave’s blood want to boil over with anger, but for now he let it pass, because one thing was certain now.

Karkat Vantas was officially batting for the Prospit team. 

Warm-up on field paused when the troll stepped out of the entryway to the locker rooms, wearing the distinctive white with gold accents of the Prospit team, a bulky gray bat bag hefted across one broad shoulder. His hat was on, pulled low over his eyes, and there was a scowl stamped across his gray face as he marched onto the field like he was marching into battle. 

With the way Caliborn started cursing at the sight of him, maybe Vantas wasn’t wrong. 

Dave quickly interjected before Caliborn could make an even bigger fool of himself. He didn’t like the outfielder much; Caliborn had a quick fuse and a tendency to charge the mound over imagined slights, but he was a true baseball misfit like the rest of them with his prosthetic leg. Plus Caliborn might not have been the fastest runner, but he could sling a ball from the back wall to homeplate in under 6 seconds. 

Coach was at the troll’s side, talking conversationally as he studiously ignored Caliborn with ease born from two years’ worth of practice. When they were close enough Dave caught the tail end of the words. “Ignore him,” Coach suggested calmly. “That’s what the rest of us do.”

Vantas said something back too low for Dave to hear, but Coach laughed at it and clapped a hand across the troll’s shoulders. “You’ll fit in well here,” Coach Egbert promised. “Now go warm up.”

Dave paused from where he and Jake were exchanging swift throws and lowered his glove. “Hey, Jake,” he said, “Why don’t you go try to smoke Dirk’s ass for a while?”

Jake eyed the new player curiously. “If you say so,” he said, secretly pleased to switch Strider brothers. Jake walked off to bother Dirk where he was fiddling with a five gallon bucket overflowing with balls.

The troll hesitated for a moment, looking over the team full of professionals with apprehension before Dave waved him over. “Yo,” he said. “Over here, I’m free.”

Vantas scowled at him but did walk over and wordlessly raised a very battered glove. Dave tossed him an easy throw, the established warm-up procedure. The troll caught it easily and threw it back. Dave returned it, and they threw the ball back and forth until Coach called them off to run laps around the entire field. 

Dave himself was in pretty much top shape, the perk of being a professional athlete, but he didn’t have the kind of endurance that multiple suicide runs required so he pretty much just jogged the entire time so he didn’t wear himself out this early into practice. No one sprinted until the last lap anyway, the bunch of die-hards that included Jake tearing for home plate as a gaggle of sweaty idiots. Dave jogged. 

They broke up into drill teams after that, and Dave spent most of the practice trying to teach a few tricks to his backup pitcher, who would only ever be an okay pitcher, or watching where Karkat was working out in the batting box with Jake. Dave had to keep his eyes off of the troll’s broad shoulders flexing as he swung the bat. 

“Focus,” Dave called out to the backup, hypocrite that he was, slapping the clay with the flat of his glove. “Aim at me. Try for a fastball—you need to work on your speed and accuracy with those.”

The younger pitcher lobed the ball at him, sloppy work that went far to the left so that Dave had to lunge for it. If anything, he guessed this was good practice for catching tipped or bunted balls because Dirk would never pitch such a throw at him. “Try again.”

Practice wore on for forever, but it went mostly okay. He didn’t have a lot of interaction with the troll, but he didn’t expect to. A catcher and the newbie second string outfielder wouldn’t share much in common on day one, so Dave patently waited until Coach blew the whistle. Practice was over. It was locker room time. His heartbeat picked up, pounding away nervously in his chest. 

Game on. 

The team funneled into their locker room as an amorphous sweaty mass of white and gold to hit the showers, which in a locker room this fancy were private stalls with actually working hot water, a thousand times better than some of the locker room setups Dave had experienced when he was younger and still catching his way up through the ranks with his twin. 

He couldn’t help but notice how most of the team avoided the troll while Dave himself was having trouble keeping his eyes off on him. He was only broken from staring when Dirk threw a towel at his face.

“Chill,” Dirk ordered him, speaking quietly. “Don’t make it obvious.”

Dave rolled his eyes at him and slipped on his shades, jamming his specially tinted catcher’s helmet in his bat bag as he shook out his sweaty hair. He gathered up an armful of clean clothes and hit the showers, quickly scrubbing himself clean with a repetitive skill. Start with the hair, work his way down until everything was clean and free of the sticky red dust that clung to him. 

He stepped out of the shower only to all but run into the troll who was freshly dressed in a gray hoodie of all things and still wearing both a frown and a scowl. Dave was only wearing a white towel around his hips, a bundle of clothes still under his arm. 

“Woah, sorry man,” Dave said, stepping back to get out the troll’s personal space. 

The troll just glared at him and turned to leave, and Dave had to seize his chance. 

“Wait, its Vantas, right?” Dave asked politely, nodding to him. “You did good today.”

The light compliment did nothing to ease the tension locked in the troll’s shoulders. “So?” He all but growled the word. 

Dave was a bit taken back at the hostility. Pretty face aside, he didn’t vibe well with assholes, but then he remembered that Vantas only knew him as the catcher that had repeatedly insulted him, his team, his skill, and then insinuated that he’d only gotten his position by sleeping with his boss. Maybe this hostility was warranted. 

Dave shrugged, careful not to push too hard, testing the waters. It would suck if the troll turned out to be a social tyrant, and now that he was on the team Dave would be stuck with him. He tried again, introducing himself. “I’m Dave, the catcher. I think we met before and I insulted you pretty good when you were up at bat. I just wanted you to know that was all trash talk. I didn’t mean anything by it and I hope you haven’t made up your mind that I’m some kind of asshole because of it.” He grinned just a little, teasingly. “Plus we’re on the same team now. That makes you safe from most of our shit talk.”

The troll raised one eyebrow. In the dim lighting Dave couldn’t tell what color his eyes were. “Most?” He questioned.

Dave frowned. “I’m sure there’s a few who’ll heckle you,” he warned. “Fuckers like Caliborn. He’s a rat bastard and I’d ignore him if I were you, ignore or punch him in the teeth until he figures out how to be a basic human being and show a little respect.”

To Dave’s surprise, Vantas nodded. “Yeah,” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Coach Egbert warned me about him, but I can handle a few dumbass racist motherfuckers like that. And if he dares say anything at me I don’t like, I’ll make him live to regret it.” The troll’s voice was accented, a subtle twist underneath it, a low growl indicative of Alternian speakers, but his English was near-perfect in a dreamy, sexy way. 

Dave nodded along, hiding his excitement. “If you do fight him, can I watch you kick his ass?” He shared a grin then, a real one. “I’d offer to help except I don’t think you’d need it.”

“Damn straight,” Vantas nodded, relaxing a little. “I’m Karkat. Outfielder… for now.”

Dave looked impressed. “For now?”

Karkat shrugged, a challenge in his eyes as he declared, “I want to make it to the infield.”

Dave whistled. “What base?”

“First,” the troll answered, folding his arms across his chest like he was ready for an argument, but Dave simply nodded.

“Makes sense,” he said. “Our first baseman’s the weakest spot in the infield. Slow reflexes, bad aim, doesn’t respond well to pressure and can’t think his way out of a cardboard box.” Dave gave the troll an obvious once-over. “I can see you playing first. It’s a good image.”

Karkat looked mildly surprised at the words but didn’t say anything else. He put his hands in his pockets. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Dave answered. “I’m glad to have you on the team.”

Karkat looked at him at that, his odd-colored eyes flashing, and then he turned to go.

This time, Dave let him, feeling a jolt of butterflies buzz through his stomach at the good real first impression. He’d made his mark, now he just had to find a way in. 

And he had an entire baseball season to do it in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mwahahahahahahah
> 
> Oh look! They're on the same team now! I sure do hope that doesn't set up any future shenanigans. ; ) 
> 
> Also I updated the tags to this fic now that I have a pretty good idea about what kind of story I want to tell. None of them are relevant to this chapter but you still might want to take a look.


	3. chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's time for more baseball!

Practices came and went until Game Day the following week. Prospit versus some mid-ranked cooperate team with a long, impossible to remember name that was simply known as its moniker, LOFAF. The team wore white trimmed with an icy frost-blue, and their batting helmets were embossed with a frog of all things. Some of these cooperate teams were wild like that, dressing in whatever caught the fancy of the millionaire which owned them. Prospit might have been a dumb name for a team, but at least it was loads better than teams like LOFAF or its brother team LOWAS, the League of Water and Soda, owned by Coca-Cola as part of its sports-drink line of advertising. 

The landscape of professional sports was surprisingly post-apocalyptic. But as long as the stadiums were full of fans, Dave could forget about the utter hellscape that employed him and focus on the task at hand.

Baseball. 

The game itself passed rather quickly and was almost completely unremarkable. Prospit wiped the floor with the LOFAF team in what would be the last home game for a while. Now that the official brackets had begun, his team would be on and off the road for months until the season ended, stopping weekly in major cities to beat other team’s asses dirty on their home turf.

The only thing that stuck out about the game was that Karkat stayed benched the entire time. Coach Egbert never put him in, but then again there wasn’t really a need for a second-string backup outfielder in a game as easily won as that one had been. 

Another week passed of nothing but polite, easy back-and-forth conversation between Dave and Karkat. Dave had made sure to engineer their daily warmups so that he was always paired with the troll, but even with Karkat relaxing around him there wasn’t much chance for Dave to take another shot at flirting with the rest of the team hanging around. It’s not that Dave didn’t trust his team, which he didn’t anyway so it was a moot point, but he knew the League bought snitches who kept their eyes peeled for rule-breakers. 

The next team on Prospit’s kill list was another low-ranked group of ballplayers who’d actually managed to run-rule the team they’d destroyed last week. Which probably meant that this year they’d moved up in the world to become an upper-level team that might actually have the balls to play a decent game. 

The only downside to this was that the team’s home stadium was in Atlanta, and in general Dave disliked playing in most of the southern cities simply because they weren’t Texas. Was that biased? Yes. Did Dave give a shit? No. 

Or at least he didn’t until he was boarding the flight to Hartsfield-Jackson and saw his seating arrangement for the plane. The tickets were first-class, of course, but he still had an assigned seat since this was a General Air flight. 

The rest of his team was milling around avoiding the ever-present paparazzi. Dave snuck away to snap a few shots with fans that would surely blow up over social media, and when he returned most of his team had already figured out who they’d be sitting next to and had paired up. Dirk was pouting next to Caliborn, the poor fucker. What shit luck. Nobody wanted to sit next to Caliborn, who was famous for getting drunk mid-flight and trying to fight the flight attendants. 

And that left Dave alone, searching for who he’d be trapped with in a metal tube 30,000 feet in the air for approximately 5 hours. 

“Hey,” a familiar voice interrupted Dave’s thoughts and he turned around to see Vantas, holding his ticket between sharp claws. Like the rest of the team, the troll was dressed in civilian clothes. He wasn’t the only troll Dave had seen waiting to board a flight, but even covered in a baggy gray hoodie there was something about Karkat that drew Dave’s eye. 

“Hey,” Dave said back, hands in his pockets. 

Karkat rolled his strange eyes. The troll was in that transitional phase of eye color that trolls went through as they aged, the gray in them leeching away to show their true color, but when the light hit them just right Dave could have sworn that the troll’s eyes were too bright to be rust. 

“Are you sitting in row 6A?” Karkat asked him. 

Dave checked his ticket. “Yeah. You?”

Karkat sighed, resigned. “Looks like we’re together then,” he said.

Secretly delighted at the news, Dave covered his excitement with light teasing. “What? Aren’t you disappointed that you don’t get to experience the supreme joy that is being locked next to a drunk Caliborn? Last time he got so shit-faced he threw up on himself.”

Karkat shuddered. “Why?”

Dave shrugged. “Who the fuck knows what mess goes on in that fucker’s head at any given time,” he said.

Karkat hefted his carry-on higher on his shoulder. “I thought that he was a decent person before I met him. The media sure loves him to death. Is that because they don’t have to experience his toxic personality in person?”

“Partly,” Dave admitted. “Our team’s PR department has a field day keeping him contained, but he does do a lot of charity work and visits children’s hospitals and shit, inspiring them that even a few missing limbs won’t hold them back in life and crap like that. Wholesome stuff. That’s just about the only thing that he takes seriously though—the rest of the time he’s a fuckin maniac.” Dave whistled. “But he’s an okay ballplayer so he gets away with it.”

“Only okay?” Karkat asked, eyes glinting. 

Dave shrugged again. “Baseball’s a hard sport to be good at.”

The line moved forward as TSA began clearing luggage and carry-ons for loading. Dave had done this old song and dance enough times before that he could have passed TSA with a blindfold, and he wasn’t stupid enough to have packed a too-large shampoo bottle or something. Dirk shot him an approving, knowingly smug look when he caught sight of Dave next to Karkat. Dave flicked him off on automatic, hiding the rude gesture from the troll. 

Dave cleared the metal detector with ease, but Karkat was stopped when he passed through the metal archway, lights flashing red. The troll didn’t lap at his pockets like he’d forgotten something. Instead, his clawed hand went to his throat and fished out a silver chain. There was something dangling from the end that he hid in his fist so that Dave couldn’t make out what it was, and once he placed it in the X-Ray basket and stepped through he was good to go.

Karkat retrieved the necklace and had safely hidden it under the neckline of his hoodie before Dave could get a good look at whatever symbol the troll wore. Dave knew enough about troll culture to know their obsession with their signs, so he didn’t question it even as he realized that he’d never seen the troll wear a sign before, or even dress in a blood color. He’d only ever seen the troll in black, gray, or his baseball uniform. 

They boarded the plane easily, right on schedule. Karkat got the window seat while Dave claimed the aisle. He didn’t mind the aisle seat—he’d been on enough planes that the window seat had lost most of its appeal. 

They didn’t say much until after liftoff, where the troll had all but left gouges in the armrests of his seat from where he’d clenched at them the entire time the plane took off, and Karkat’s face looked paler than normal, slightly ashy.

“You okay?” Dave asked, leaning over. “First time flier?” 

Karkat gulped, eyes narrowing. “I’ve traveled through fucking space,” he said, still looking sick. “Human air travel should be easy after that.”

The tantalizing tidbit lit up Dave’s curiosity. “What was that like?” He asked as Karkat gazed out the window with wonder at the clouds. “Space?” He couldn’t imagine space at all. Sometimes he could barely grasp that each and every one of the stars was a real place beyond just a pinprick of light he saw in the night sky. 

Karkat’s face abruptly hardened, shoulders tensing. “Ask another troll,” he all but growled, and in the light of the plane his eyes almost looked blood-red. 

Taken back, Dave leaned away, his face a blank mask. He wouldn’t have bothered the troll again, except that almost immediately Karkat began cursing at himself in his own language, the syllables sharp and grating. 

“Sorry,” Karkat apologized, chagrined. “I know you didn’t mean that in a bad way, and I’m trying to get better at… questions, I guess.” He shrugged, still growling at himself softly. 

The low growl that followed the Alternian outburst just reminded Dave that Karkat was, well, an alien. And there was still a lot he didn’t understand about the trolls in general. Maybe his question had been insensitive somehow? 

“Did I ask something offensive or anything?” Dave fretted that he’d insulted Karkat again. “That wasn’t my intention.”

“I know,” Karkat said, sighing. “It’s just a sore subject with me.”

Dave nodded with understanding. “Okay,” he said. “I won’t ask again.”

“No, it’s okay, really,” Karkat interjected, trying to sound sincere. “It’s just… I was on that first ship.”

Dave blinked at the words, stunned. “You were one of the trolls that made first contact?” He asked, shocked. That had been ten years ago. Was Karkat really one of the first trolls to reach the safety of Earth? “Holy shit. How old were you then?” Dave vividly remembered the day the alien ship had first appeared in the sky off the coast of New York. He’d been sixteen at the time and had been pissed that the potential alien invasion had ruined his plans to run away from home for the first time. 

Karkat looked uneasy. “Only seven sweeps,” he answered. “That’s how old we all were.”

Dave might have had the details fuzzy, but he knew enough about that first ship to put the pieces together. “That means you know the Heiress, right? Holy shit, that means you know all of them, right? All of those first trolls?”

Karkat just shrugged and said, “Yeah, I know Feferi very well.”

Dave was blown away. He wracked his mind but he couldn’t recall ever hearing the name Vantas before he’d met Karkat, and he thought he’d at least heard of most of that small lot of first refugees.

“Don’t tell anyone else,” Karkat warned him. “I don’t want the other team players to know.”

Dave mimed zipping his lips. “They won’t hear a peep out of me,” he swore. 

Karkat pulled out some odd piece of machinery that fit into the palm of his hand and fiddled with it. There was a keyboard and a screen, but it was all in Alternian so Dave had no idea what it said. Karkat spent most of the rest of the flight typing away at the device, chatting with other trolls who’s text colors ranged in shade from green to violent to gold. Once Dave would of sworn he’d seen pink, and he knew that Karkat had just admitted to knowing the Heiress, but that was too much. It had to have been a mistake. 

One thing stuck with him though—throughout the entire silent flight, Dave couldn’t help but notice that the odd, angular text that Karkat typed in was a blank, slate gray. 

Something about that niggled at him, something about gray text and a troll of the first ship, but Dave couldn’t quite remember it and the rest of the flight passed quickly. 

The Atlanta airport was thinly disguised chaos, but when was it not? At least Dave got his luggage fast and reunited with his twin, who looked worse for the wear after five hours with Caliborn. 

“How’d it go?” Dave asked smugly, nudging his brother.

Dirk just sighed and shouldered his bag. “I’d rather break my ankle than voluntarily go through that again.” 

“I’d bet,” Dave remarked, whistling as they made their way over to the rest of the team. Jake looked happy to see Dirk in one piece, and Dave rolled his eyes at his teammate. 

“Not all of us are as lucky as you,” Dirk whispered to him as Coach Egbert did a quick headcount. “Not all of us get to sit next to our crush for five hours.”

Dave shrugged the pointed comment off, staring at where Karkat was sulking to the side as he followed the rest of his team to the bus that would take them to the hotel for the night. 

Like always, he roomed with Dirk, who like always managed to sneak Jake into the room sometime after three in the morning. At least they were quieter about it this time, and by the time the sun rose Jake was gone and no one on the team was wiser. 

Then it was a large breakfast and another bus ride to the stadium for warm ups before the game. 

Then – Game time. 

There was always something remarkable about the opening rituals of a good ballgame. Maybe it was the way things never changed. Even across stadiums and states, there was always the opening anthem and the scent of freshly turned over red clay and mown grass. There was always the roar of the crowd and the painful glare from the stadium lights. And there was always this little kick of excitement in his belly, the years not dulled that child-like love of the sport he’d become a legend at. 

By the time the first inning was over, Dave knew for certain this team had jumped up in the ranks far beyond what their official card read, run-ruling that last team aside. Maybe it was the new head-coach, a shouting, vicious figure in the dugout with a face that looked etched out of a block of clay itself. There were a few upcoming younger stars as well to content with, a few heavy-hitters and a dab-hand shortstop with quick feet and even faster fingers. Offense was struggling against the first serious team of the year, and defense was hard-pressed to keep the score at zero even with Dirk pitching. 

This wasn’t a home game so John’s voice was secondary to this stadium’s announcer, someone unseen who yelled too much and was fond of the kind of gossip that would get most announcers fired. The inning ended with the score locked at zero, but Jake quickly got to second base and then it was a race to score. Caliborn struck out after tipping a ball out-sides but took it with grace and retreated back to the dugout without charging the mound, bat in hand. Sometimes, it was the little victories that mattered. 

No one scored until the fifth inning, and then Prospit was only up by one after a batter stole his way around the diamond and won a pickle match for home in a stunning play that would make the news for sure. Then a rival hitter knocked one to the back wall on a lucky strike, scoring two points for their team with a runner already on first. 

Dirk was pissed. Dave could read it in the vicious tilt of his shoulders, the short, violent windup before the next fastball struck his glove with enough force to almost knock him back. Holy shit, that felt like a 95 mph one. Dave kept his hand signals to a minimum and let Dirk work through some of his anger at the homerun for the rest of the short inning, because Dirk proceeded to smoke the ass of anyone unlucky enough to be at bat with him this pissed off.

Down by one, the next two innings were deadlocked and now Dave was starting to worry. Outfield was sloppy, the runners were slow, and all in all Lady Luck was just not on Prospit’s side tonight. The few solid line drives they got all glanced out of bounds or were nagged by eager gloved hands. 

This was the Catcher’s Curse. Dave had been a star catcher for years; he knew exactly how powerless he was to improve his team’s chances. He couldn’t make any big hits, nor could he likely make the big plays to save the game because game-saving plays for home base were so rare and at most he could expect a few lucky outs from bunts or the like. It was up to the players like Jake and Dirk to save the day. 

Ninth inning now. Still down by one. Clock ticking. Dave was going to lose his mind if they lost a game so soon in the season, and against a cooperate team at that. He’d rather set his favorite ballcap on fire. He could physically feel his team’s stats dropping. The crowd was going crazy with stress and euphoria and it was starting to eat his nerves with worry. 

Then Jake faked-out the pitcher with a bunt for first that had Dave’s inner catcher cringing. No way would a move like that have worked on him, but it was sufficient for first against the rival catcher and pitcher duo. 

Jake tried to steal, but the enemy basemen were all over him. It was a foolish endeavor that left Dave chewing his fingernails down to nubs from the dugout. He wasn’t even aware of the troll at his side until Karkat spoke. 

“You know,” Karkat said. “We never had this kind of back-and-forth aspect to sports back on Alternia. To us, the winner was always obvious. There never was any guessing to who would win.” The troll was studying the field with those strangely grayed-out eyes. “I think it’s better this way, the not-knowing. Especially when the losers won’t be put to death for the loss.”

Dave blinked behind his shades at that. “What?”

The troll just shrugged at him.

The unmistakable crack of the bat against a ball drew him back to the game at hand, and it was a pop-fly, and Jake was running because fuck it, why the hell not risk it all?

The fly ball was caught. Jake made it safely back to first but the damage was done. The inning turned over and Prospit lost all hope of scoring. The game was all but over. They’d lost.

Dirk finished the last three hitters off with nothing but fastballs. The score was 1-2. Goddammit.

The home crowd was losing their minds loudly enough to drown out the groans from the Prospit side as Dave got in line to shake hands with the winning team. He went through the motions mechanically, turning over each and every play in his mind to pick it apart and see the flaws that lead to this unfavorable conclusion. He didn’t like the picture he was forming. 

After they left the field, locker rooms were a quiet affair with Caliborn hurling insults and pointing fingers at everyone but himself, which was par for the course, win or lose. 

Coach Egbert appeared, looking grim, his infamous clipboard in hand and a pen behind his ear as he scowled at the assembled team. Coach wasn’t the type to yell or scream or rage, no, John’s dad did something far worse.

“Boys,” Coach Egbert began, and to him they were always boys. “I’m disappointed in you. Tonight you played an average game against an upper-ranked team and got average results to show for it. I’ve told you boys again and again—we can’t reply on the same three or four power players to win the game for us. Baseball is a game won or lost as a team, and until you boys can start playing as one, expect more losses like this. Get used to it if you want. Or… you can take a step back, look at yourself, and decide to make a change and be a team player, because that’s what Prospit needs. We don’t need more stars—we need more ballplayers, people who can work together and play together. So if tonight’s game disappointed you as much as it did me… good.” And with that, Coach left the team to clean up after themselves.

“Damn,” Dave whistled, lounging against the wall as he waited for the showers to open. “I wonder how the League will rank us now.”

Dirk threw a towel at him, frowning, and Dave was left with this thoughts once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm slowly setting up the wider world around this story. It won't all be fun baseball shenanigans. There'll be a message hidden in here somewhere.

**Author's Note:**

> I will probably be adding more to this, but it'll update relatively slow as i work on other projects as well. But anyway, Happy 413!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> And Thank you Belvie, notwest, and Peach for inspiring me to make Dirk a Pitcher with your baseball one-shot.


End file.
